Born of Rising Apes, Not Fallen Angels
by lalunaticscribe
Summary: "Then we have met in a fantasy. For it is the place where the fallen angels meet the rising apes." The lines of fantasy and reality tended to get blurred, but only in some cases should they land squarely in the area humans call... the Twilight Zone. So every Autobot believed, until one proved otherwise.
1. Chapter 1

_**Born of Risen Apes, Not Fallen Angels**_

_**An LLS Production**_

* * *

_We were born of risen apes, not fallen angels, and the apes were armed killers besides. And so what shall we wonder at? Our murders and massacres and missiles, and our irreconcilable regiments? Or our treaties, whatever they may be worth; our symphonies, however seldom they may be played; our peaceful acres, however frequently they may be converted to battlefields; our dreams, however rarely they may be accomplished? The miracle of man is not how far he has sunk, but how magnificently he has risen. We are known among the stars by our poems, not our corpses.  
_– Robert Ardrey

* * *

A book clattered.

The pianist hesitated, before the volume tumbled, knocking down her metronome. She picked it up, setting book and metronome back into place, moving the lever such that the metronome began to swing in time, _click-click-click-click-click-_

The keys in the board depressed themselves, the electronic soundboard ringing out a tune.

Quickly, the fingers tickled the ivories...

* * *

The Decepticon chose Chinatown, San Francisco this time. While Chinatown was squirrelled with alleys and back-roads, it also meant that the task was left mainly to smaller units; Arcee and Sideswipe, mainly. It also meant that the larger Autobots were waiting to spring the trap when the piano echoed.

"Bogey coming in hot- hello?" Will slapped the portable comm. "Big Buddha? Optimus?"

Every Cybertronian, Autobot and Decepticon alike, had frozen. Their pistons moved up and down, their hydraulics flushed. A rumble echoed, and Will realised that it was Ironhide simply stretching, to face the Decepticon.

Another beat. Somehow, then, in some bizarre synchronisation, large limbs of metal and electricity convulsed. A lamp-post went flying, and thankfully parts of Chinatown had been long evacuated

Yes, Autobots and Decepticons were dancing on the streets of San Fran.

Major William Lennox stared, rubbed his eyes, and then turned to Chief Master Sergeant Epps. "Tell me you got that."

Epps held up a smart-phone. "On it."

Some crash resounded about a minute later, and all Cybertronians stopped, staring at each other mid-step or mid-move or even standing about in the midst of comparatively minimal destruction. A sense of unease pervaded the battlefield, as if some unknown force had swept through and then left them to their own devices.

Sideswipe paused, halfway through a _fouetté_. "What?"

"Never mind!" Ironhide was, predictably, the first to tackle the 'Con opposite him. And yet, the enemy subdued or otherwise, the same unease pervaded the field.

* * *

"Good news," Ratchet announced to the combined forces of NEST hours after returning to Diego Garcia. "And bad, to use human colloquialisms."

"Go on," Will nodded. "Good news?"

"I have identified our symptoms to be closer to the disease humanity identifies as Sydenham's chorea," Ratchet announced.

"...is that fatal?"

"The disease is historically referred to as St Vitus' Dance," Ratchet clarified.

"So you all got a sudden onset of dancing?" Will repeated, kneading his forehead. "What?"

"That is impossible," Ratchet clarified. "We do not have biological bodies vulnerable to the _Streptococcus _bacteria that is said to be the source of this affliction."

"Then...?"

"It could be a signal," Ironhide volunteered. The black mech had sequestered himself against part of the wall of the giant hangar they were in, and Will was struck for a moment how... vulnerable... Ironhide seemed to hold himself. "Some jamming experiment?"

"It affected Decepticons equally," Will reminded him. "Guess the Decepticons lost control."

"No Decepticon worth their processor would allow a device out of his making without extensive testing," came Ironhide's input. "No, it was foreign to the 'Cons too."

"There was a third party," the rumble of Optimus Prime answered. "A third party who, for that single moment, was able to paralyse all battle and ensure cessation of hostilities through some signal. Some shared, unified signal, calling towards both Autobots and Decepticons..."

Grimly, the head of Optimus Prime turned, and without a battle mask in place, the expressive metallic ridges of his features were... worried.

"It is not that it paralysed us, Major Lennox. This signal meant that a third Cybertronian party was present, and evaded my best sensors."

Will shook his head. "We didn't hear a signal."

"Yes. So it was aimed to take out Cybertronians, but leave humans unharmed," Ratchet shook his head.

"This is the recording from my sensors," a speaker popped out of Optimus' finger, and chords began to ring.

Will listened for a few moments. "Hold on... a _piano_ took down you guys?"

* * *

The music echoed, as if a spell had ended its casting, echoes of sound within the hall mere shadows of great music.

The stool shifted. The metal chair was laid to one side, and the hands of our pianist took up a velvet cloth to wipe down the instrument. Smoothing her clean hands, she wrapped it up and took it away, unaware of the destruction outside, or of the miracle that had happened, or something.

No, our musician was aware only that somewhere, her car was destroyed, the road with it, and her notes were scattered. A sheet of paper, lined with musical staffs, was blown up in a breeze, slapping her in the face.

Dahlia Su tore it away, and with it fluttered off her destiny.

* * *

_**Strange premise, I know.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Born of Risen Apes, Not Fallen Angels**_

* * *

_Chinatown, San Francisco, CA  
5 years ago..._

Smoke drifted through an open window, out into the streets. California was in the throes of summer, and it showed in a barely-lowered temperature that still meant people walking about in cotton shirts and shorts. Even in the midst of Chinatown, where parts of the wreckage from a gas leak still littered the streets in the midst of clean-up, people wore hats and sunglasses, and tourists were readily apparent by how they stopped to take pictures of nearly everything, including the green-tiled pagoda roofing and the group of old people in the middle of a public park, moving through different forms and stances.

"Why the old people?" one of the guys wearing a khaki cap commented to his friend. "It's not like... _whoa_."

"What?" his friend blinked, before he spotted the picture and gave a low whistle. "Oh, when did _you_ appear, beautiful?"

"I wouldn't mind a piece of that," the other commented, before looking up.

"She's hot," he admitted, looking back up to meet twinkling dark slanted eyes.

He jumped back. "Oh, erm-"

The black-haired woman in an exercise vest and jogging slacks tilted her head, indicating the group of old people still in mid-form.

"I'm sorry," he swallowed. "It's- I'm sorry for disturbing you guys. A- Are you with them?"

She shrugged. Eyebrows furrowed, and her lips thinned. It had the effect of a pout.

"I'm sorry, do you speak English?" the man tried again. "My name's Graham, er, sorry, David Graham."

"_Day. Vid. Gram._" she enunciated.

"That's right," he nodded quickly in relief. "Erm, do you...?"

"Yes, I do," she continued in perfect English, smiling. "My name is Dahlia Su. Very nice to meet you."

* * *

_Nellis Air Force Base,  
present day_

"Pretty sure it's _The Nutcracker_," was Will's final pronouncement upon the final of eleven repetitions. Not significant, given that the recording took place in the middle of a war-zone, but long for the Autobots. Even returning to Diego Garcia had been put off to track the signal down, hours after the San Francisco debacle.

Ratchet tilted his head, or what passed for it. The glazed look of hardcore online surfers, gamers and Autobots immersed in the World Wide Web passed over his optics before he came up with a reference. "_Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy_, composed by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, a Russian composer from-"

"Fine, we get it." Epps nodded, interrupting what sounded like a Wikipedia entry. "So, the Decepticons have a sense of humour, and a flare for the dramatic. They didn't just want to kill you guys, they wanted to make you all look like idiots too."

Bumblebee made another chirrup in Cybertronix, that had the younger Autobots and Ratchet sniggering at Ironhide.

Will looked up. "What?"

"Tooth fairy," Ratchet translated.

Ironhide gave a snort and a cannon roll in reply.

"But Bumblebee can communicate with his radio!" Will argued.

"That is correct," Optimus finally gave his contribution. "Which leaves us two possibilities. One, that the song itself holds an interesting auditory effect on all Cybertronians. Two, that the instrument playing it can produce a signal beyond the spectrum of human hearing, to give such an effect. Thus, one of us must-"

A mass of metallic giant limbs pushed the black mech amongst them forward.

"-thank you, Ironhide, for volunteering yourself."

"Wait, what! No-!" More cannons rolled.

"Come here, Ironhide," Ratchet raised a buzz-saw. "Don't make me throw a wrench at you."

"Slaggit!" Ironhide roared, before other Autobots got the drop on him.

"Make sure he's intact," Will called. "Graham needs a ride to pick up his girlfriend later, and he's the transport."

* * *

_North Las Vegas Airport, NV,  
present day_

The electronic piano was propped in its trolley, and Dahlia strapped it down with a rubberised rope and attached hooks. The instrument might look out of place, being nearly as long as she was tall. Yet, it was her source of income, and thus precious.

"We made it out of San Fran," she patted the casing. "And into Sin City. Now, the Strip."

The piano did not reply.

"I knew it," Dahlia turned. Beside the baggage carousel, quite a few men – and women – turned their heads, almost in acknowledgement of her presence. More than one pair of eyes lingered, before sliding back to watching for their own luggage. For an airport filled with jaded travellers, it was actually a miracle.

Hard-soled shoes clicked as Dahlia strolled out with her carry-on and instrument, clicking her tongue as she lingered by the taxi stand.

"Hey."

Dahlia barely turned her head. "You're late, Captain Graham."

"Yeah, I had to borrow my superior's ride," Graham carefully patted the GMC Topkick next to him. "I go on tour for eight months and you're using _Captain_ Graham now?"

"Well, usually we keep in contact even if it means talking about Dungeons and Dragons."

"Ouch," Graham joked as the Topkick rumbled. "How long are you gonna be in Vegas, love?"

"Three days," Dahlia replied, hoisting the electronic keyboard. "Am I still due to play for the boys at Nellis?"

"I'll arrange a concert and everything," Graham answered, helping her to shove the instrument into the trunk, albeit with some degree of care. One arm then looped her close in a hug as they shared a light kiss. "You alright?"

"Mild airsickness," Dahlia shook her head. "I'm fine. If my grandparents could survive the trip across the Pacific, I'm fine."

"Yeah, like Bruce Lee," Graham rebutted, but hastily closed the trunk and waited for her to board before getting in. "Where are you headed?"

"The Luxor."

Slowly, Graham sucked in a breath of air. "That's gonna be a lot."

"Does it matter?"

"You're performing there and you're asking if it _matters_?" Graham echoed.

"The music is the entertainment," Dahlia reasoned. "Its medium does not matter so much."

"Doesn't hurt to look," Graham teased, as they headed out towards the Luxor Las Vegas. "I mean... the Luxor. Ancient Egyptians and so on."

Dahlia did not reply, simply patting the dashboard.

"The keyboard's new," Graham commented.

"It's really the same keyboard," she admitted. "My RPG buddies put it together for me, since I play a bard in real life and in our games."

"Dahlia."

"Yes?"

"This is the bit where I ask you to play me like an instrument-"

The radio coughed, sputtered, and tuned into something like a litany of "_NONONONONO_-!" then died.

"...the car is right," Dahlia finally said. "That is a horrible pick-up line."

* * *

Sure, Cybertronians had their physical differences too, Ironhide grumbled to himself after being subjected to the tinkling music that was Ratchet's choice of torture, both from the signal in San Francisco, and whatever recording dredged from the cesspool of humanity's Internet. Filtered through the sensors of the bloody medic and several other Autobots that had been on-scene, the sub-audible signal had been lost, leaving nothing but ill will towards Tchaikovsky in general.

Physical differences, though. The range of human differences were minor, and yet cumulative in a unique product. The woman Captain Graham said was his girlfriend, for one, was clearly Asian, which brought up some things about national security. Aesthetically pleasant, for a human. Not that Ironhide cared.

Dahlia Su Daji, the profiles had read of her name and entire identity. No matter her name, or that she had multiple names – apparently a common result of the Chinese diaspora, he learnt – he was still an altogether insignificant woman who would never know what it was that had chauffeured her through Las Vegas, or Sin City, as humans called it. The reason why, the Autobot hardly knew or cared. Until interrupting human mating overtures created this entertainment.

"Radio problems?" the woman continued, seated in the back while Captain Graham drove, one arm looped around her instrument.

"Y- Yeah," Captain Graham stuttered. "It's Major Lennox's ride."

Technically accurate. No need to mention that not even Major Lennox drove his own ride.

"So, what are you performing tonight?" Graham finally asked.

"Mio Isayama, _Tsuki no Waltz_," Dahlia answered, her fingers beginning to tap out a rhythm on the keyboard strapped next to her. It resounded with a single-note melody. "_Konna ni tsuki ga aoi yoru wa/ Fushigi na koto ga okiru yo/ Doko ka fukai mori no naka de/ Samayou, watashi._"

The radio hissed, spat out a few sparks, and the GPS panel died.

"...I hope your superior has excellent auto insurance." Dahlia mentioned.

No other accidents happened until Dahlia was out of the truck, Graham had parked outside of the Luxor, and she had left man and pseudo-vehicle behind, carrying her keyboard. Graham got back inside, finally brushing the steering wheel in worry. "You okay, Ironhide?"

"...my locators are on the fritz, but other than that I shall be fine," Ironhide admitted through the radio. "They are being repaired as we speak."

"What happened?"

"Another signal," Ironhide groaned. "Unable to establish point of origin. Though, I noticed one thing."

"Yes?"

"Captain Graham... that keyboard your girlfriend's toting about, is looking really suspicious right now."

* * *

Ironhide's location perception was still off, hence accounting for why Graham took so long that he missed the opening number. The cure, however, came in the form of an errant bar of music, also being played by Dahlia.

"Ironhide?" Graham slowly asked, seated inside of the transformed Topkick.

"...what song was that?"

"What song was..." Graham lifted his head to listen. "Erm... Amazing Grace? You know?"

"I do not know. Enlighten me."

"It's a favourite," Graham shook his head. "_Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound/ That saved a wretch like me./ I once was lost but now am found,/ Was blind, but now I see._"

"...we need to call Prime."

* * *

_**So here, I set the story after the first film, but before the second took place. Partly because I have no idea how to locate this.**_

_**I will, however reveal that the inspiration of the fic came from the Supercell song 'The Everlasting Guilty Crown', performed by Egoist from the animé Guilty Crown. No matter how the animé itself was pretty bad, the songs are quite good.**_

_**Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Born of Risen Apes, Not of Fallen Angels**_

* * *

The Autobots currently on the third planet of the Sol solar system, named Earth, were all assembled upon a single location. Nothing less than a Decepticon all-out assembly should have merited the presence of every one of them. Yet, the current aim was similar to that; perhaps, a threat even worse than Decepticons.

"Dahlia Su Daji," Optimus pronounced the name of the woman whose image was being projected three-dimensionally before the circle of Autobots. Beside her image spun the grey keyboard. "This woman is currently in possession of a human instrument known as an 'electronic keyboard', similar to Cybertronian synthesisers."

"So we're killing her?" someone spoke up, if very quietly. The same unease pervaded the quiet hangar all Autobots were currently in, shared as they beheld the organic that made them dance like wooden puppets on strings.

"The aim is to replace her keyboard with an ordinary one," Optimus clarified. "Tomorrow evening, the... package... shall be present on Nellis Air Force Base, at the behest of Captain Graham to perform for our human allies. A similar replacement has been arranged to arrive here."

"It's a replacement mission," Ironhide exhaled, or cycled air through his vents. "So why are we all here?"

"The current capabilities of the keyboard are unknown, as its range is," Optimus clarified. "What we currently know is that, she has become capable of controlling any of us, and of disrupting our sensor capabilities."

Ratchet paused. "So the reason that we're holding this conversation here, under private comms..."

"The woman has done nothing wrong knowingly," Optimus reflected. "She has merely stumbled upon a weapon beyond her comprehension or our knowledge, as Archibald Witwicky had done before. Was it not an accident that intertwined our fates here first?"

"That same Witwicky produced Megatron's slayer," Sideswipe pointed out.

"...that, too," Optimus acknowledged, giving voice to the uneasy thoughts shared by so many Autobots now.

* * *

"When you said I was performing at Nellis, I expected the mess hall or... something," Dahlia sighed. "Not the bloody hangar! What kind of crap acoustics are you subjecting me?"

"Calm down, calm down," Graham cautioned. "It's a... precaution."

"Against what?" Dahlia raged. "Your superior? For one thing, why am I performing on the base itself? On an _American_ base?"

"My superiors caught your YouTube videos," the captain answered. "They really wanted you here."

Dark eyes widened. Black hair spinning wild out of her scorpion plait waved as she motioned towards the revamped hangar, and then outside. "The fact is... they insisted... _here_? No. Look, I can show you-"

"Wait, wait!" Graham bodily chucked himself between the keyboard set up at one end and the irate musician. "Erm, what are you doing?"

"A sound test," Dahlia motioned. "It's the bit where I bounce sound off these aluminium walls and prove that, even if you want classical or jazz, this hangar is not where you want it. Unstable power supply, lousy acoustics, and parked beside a presumably busy military airfield. Making any sound here is going to take a full band, not just me. I can't work like this."

"Couldn't you... try?" Graham pleaded.

"I'll show you," Dahlia picked her way through a sea of wires, pressing a green rubber button to switch the keyboard on. "_Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-__t__i-do_. See? Not even a single octave can be heard."

Graham looked around surreptitiously. "Still... it's not normal, I agree, but it's really the best we could do..."

Dahlia seemed to droop. "Is there no other place?"

"I'll go check. Don't move."

"Mmm."

Dahlia sank her face into her hands once the captain left. "What am I doing...? A job is a job... music is music. Right next to an airfield... I won't go."

Her fingers played a few notes ineffectually, the melody simple yet profound as she hummed along.

"_So-Do, So-Do-Ri, Te. Re, Fa-Te-Do, Si. Do, So-Do-Ri, Fa. Ri-Re-Do-Si, Do. So-Do-So-Ri Fa, Ri-Re-Do, Si._"

Something... twitched.

Dahlia paused. In the silence of an empty hangar, nothing but the notes played simply echoed.

_Do_, she played. Nothing.

_So-Do, So-Do-Ri, Te. _A twitch in the shadows.

_Re, Fa-Te-Do, Si. Do, So-Do-Ri, Fa. Ri-Re-Do-Si, Do._

Dahlia started as the crackle of electricity reached her ears. "Electric surge? That kind of output could set this whole place on fire! What kind of idiots are at this air base-"

Her feet had taken her across the hangar floor, but then she stopped. "This... a car collection?"

The Topkick was the only recognisable vehicle. There was a silver car, three motorcycles, a yellow-painted Hummer, and a giant semi with flame decals.

"So I'm performing for a host of soldiers and their vehicles," Dahlia finally commented to herself. "Americans and their cars... still, these aren't typical cars on a military base."

Turning her back on them, back towards the keyboard. "At least I'll have an appreciative audience. I can't give anything, but at least we have met. A song is the only courtesy I can afford to give."

The keys of the keyboard clanged, ringing with a piano facsimile as Dahlia smiled. "_Dancing bears, painted wings, things I almost remember... And a song someone sings, once upon a December..._"

The song came naturally, without needing a reference or sheet music to refer to. And, even if the ground trembled, or even as metal screeched, oblivion had reached her already, lost in the memory of the song.

There was definitely something about prancing horses. The fact that the ground was shaking so much could only be due to a horse stampede.

"_And a song someone sings, once upon a December..._"

As the song wound down to its coda, finally, Dahlia opened her eyes to see a tall black robot with blue glowing eyes and massive shoulders begin to aim glowing cannons at her.

"Dammit, quit that! I'll shoot you!"

Anastasia's lullaby ended with a discordant clang.

So that was the stampede, she realised. I'm going to die here by giant alien robot? Wait, why are giant alien robots here?

"Ironhide!" voices chimed, this one heavy and deep.

Is it an invasion? Doesn't matter, right now I'm under attack. I'm being threatened.

So... what made him stop?

Dahlia Su did not hold her group's highest record of tricky RPG games without much of a strategic mind or the inability to accept extremely wild premises based on flimsy evidence. She buckled down and began playing desperately.

* * *

Ironhide was temporarily confused when the human ignored him to continue playing. Not the default reaction of most humans. He realised her real intention when his cannons spun wildly out of control before shooting away.

"She's controlling me!" he yelled. The other Autobots scattered from plasma bursts within.

"Cut the power cables!" someone yelled.

The woman abandoned her keyboard to run, making for the hangar doors once electricity began arcing out.

"We mean you no harm!" Optimus threw himself, transforming midway such that the giant semi blocked her path.

The woman did not pause to consider, but threw herself to slide under the Autobot leader and out the other side of the door. Or would have, until someone's giant metallic hand slammed all five fingers down; then she changed tactics to wriggle out.

"This woman's crazy!" Presumably Sideswipe said it.

"This woman's... tricky!" Ironhide snarled as she got out from his grasp, and ran. "Wait... where's she going?"

A rag tangled from her hands, as well as a jerry can. The Autobots watched as she flicked the cap open with the other hand, and flung the jerry can out to the hangar doors. The flick of flints seemed to echo, and a small flame appeared.

"...Frag."

* * *

"You need to put that lighter back now."

Dahlia started. The giant robot, in fact the largest of the assembled machines, was addressing her. The semi transformed back into that metal giant...

"My name is Optimus Prime," the giant in red and blue offered. "Ironhide had frightened you, I apologise. Please put down the lighter or this human establishment could be destroyed."

Slowly, the lighter flicked closed in her hand. The airplane fuel spilled reflected a corona of rainbow colours in the sunlight as human and Autobot considered each other.

"Who... are you?"

"I am Optimus Prime."

Dahlia exhaled. "Designation of species."

"Ah. We are autonomous robotic organisms from the distant planet Cybertron. You may refer to us as Autobots."

"I see," Dahlia acknowledged, meeting his stare head-on.

Silence passed before Optimus spoke again. "You do not seem afraid of us."

"You don't seem very frightening."

"It is in my experience that humans fear those they do not know."

"Hence I do not lack complete fear of you and your... companions," Dahlia answered. "Yet, I do not completely fear you, in the sense that you possess the faculty of reason and thus, can be spoken to and reasoned with."

The lighter was set down. "My name is Dahlia Su. I am just a musician. And, as you have said, I am just a human being."

A head with yellow-green plating poked out. "The keyboard has been secured."

"Keyboard? Wait, my keyboard-" Dahlia started, looking out at the air base. "This is entrapment? What do you want with my keyboard?"

"You live within the human settlement known as San Francisco, correct?" Optimus questioned.

"What about it?" Dahlia glared back. "My keyboard-"

Air vented as soldiers began to congregate onto the airfield.

"Get down on the ground, now!" people were shouting. "You!"

Dahlia knelt, still eyeing the Autobot, spine straight and proud despite the difference in size. "How very _human_ of you."

Those celestial blue optics glimmered, meeting dark eyes that were resigned, but refused to waver even as the woman was caught in a tackle by soldiers and arrested.

* * *

"The keyboard?"

Ratchet's buzz-saw stopped. The relative silence of the hangar suffused for a brief moment. Plastic chips lay about them, and the Autobot medic held the metallic chips and circuit boards in his metalloid hands.

"The All-Spark gave some of Earth's technology derived from Megatron's body sentience, and a pseudo-spark of sorts," Ratchet answered. "We know that hundreds of those drones were destroyed over the course of human history from Sector Seven's old records of animate experimentation. Somehow... the sparks merged into the metal, which was smelted into the very circuits of this keyboard into a crude, but powerful signal generator-amplifier gestalt device."

"...you mean a communication array?" Optimus suggested.

"I mean what I said," Ratchet huffed. "The signal was input using the piano keys, and then amplified to any Cybertronian within hearing distance. With some adjustment, humans might be able to perceive the sounds, but the applications are too much. The fact that a human could, with a song, take over a battlefield is... intimidating."

"She's been playing on their heartstrings all along," Ironhide added.

"Damn, she's good," Sideswipe chuckled. "Wouldn't mind seeing old 'Hide dance on his pedes again."

"I'll show _you_ dancing on my pedes," Ironhide grumbled, cannons rotating.

"Yeah? Well, I can dance on my own just fine!"

"Mechs, you're both pretty, now shut up," Ratchet rebutted without batting an optic plate. "The problem is the input. There's a dual component to it, so it requires an electrochemical and physical signal at moments spatially distinct from each other in a fixed pattern unique to an individual human being's bio-signature."

"...it reacts to her brainwaves?"

"Something similar," Ratchet mused. "I'm a medic, not Sentinel Prime. If I had to say it, given the intent behind each command... as humans call it, a prayer."

* * *

_**Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Born of Risen Apes, not Fallen Angels**_

* * *

Dahlia scowled the moment he walked into the conference room she was a virtual prisoner in. "You helped them set me up."

"Ah..." Graham hesitated. "It's for your own good. Really."

"_Really_." Now Dahlia sounded dry as the Sahara. "So being bodily handled by a group of soldiers was also for my own good?"

"That was an accident, I promise," Graham raised both hands in the universal gesture of surrender, despite being the one not tethered to a chair in the small room Dahlia had been set in. "So was the piano thing. There was... an enemy involved, Big Buddha said so."

"...the giant alien transforming autonomous robotic organisms," Dahlia realised. "I take it that this information is classified."

"Erm, yeah," Graham rubbed his temple. "You'll just have to sign a NDA and some exchange forms, the Major is going to look into reimbursement, and it's fine. It's going to be fine."

"It's the principle of hiding that SETI is successful," Dahlia complained. "And you're not helping. I know it's your job, and I'm mature enough to accept that, David. I'm just not mature enough to accept it _now_."

"Okay," Graham nodded after considering it. "Fair enough. Is there... anything else? Can I get you some water? A pillow? Dahlia?"

Dahlia considered, almost in a trance for a brief moment. "I guess... the Topkick was the black alien?"

"Erm, yeah."

"So how much about my keyboard is classified information?"

Graham winced. "Erm, it can control them. That's what I was told."

"Like the Pied Piper," Dahlia nodded in understanding. "And the reason I'm here is... because I am under protective custody, or because I'm a weapon?"

Graham's lip thinned. "Please, Dahlia. Calm down."

Disapproving silence echoed. "I'm waiting."

"You're here 'cause the admins here are paranoid shits," Graham shrugged. "I mean, giant alien transforming robots, and they keep it hush-hush."

"Giant alien transforming autonomous robotic organisms," Dahlia corrected. "The term 'robot' implies that they're human-made and lack autonomy, and that they are built."

"I love it when you talk boffin to me, but no need to be so exact."

Dahlia sighed, covering her face with her hands. "How many people know about... this?"

"Well, the whole base knows you held _them_ hostage with a jerry can of airplane fuel and a lighter," Graham replied, grinning. "And they know you're my girlfriend, so I feel much better. If it's about your keyboard... very few."

Dahlia nodded. "That makes sense. So... all your overseas trips and operations, all this time, were to deal with... them? Their enemies? They knew English."

"Yeah," Graham hedged. "They only came about a year ago. My whole career wasn't always immersed in alien blow-ups. I promise you, love, your involvement in this shit isn't going further. And, apparently they learnt Earth's languages through the World Wide Web."

Dahlia slowly nodded. "I am... unsure. Experience with these things usually mean that I have become a vital component of the keyboard's function in some manner."

"What brought this on?"

"I read TV Tropes." Dahlia sighed. "I'm a security risk, I get it. I also have, or had, the capability to control giant alien robots with my keyboard. The why here doesn't matter so much as the how, so I should be prepared for accusations, assassinations, or..."

Here the door swung open to reveal two besuited men with files, the kind that belong to people in clandestine organisations which may or may not be mentioned in passing.

"...agents," Dahlia finished in resignation.

"Captain Graham, you are not permitted to be here, in the same room as the target."

"She's my girlfriend," Graham answered, his posture straightening subtly.

"Dahlia Su?" the bespectacled one of the pair spoke, as the door closed behind them. "I understand that you have met our extraterrestrial friends, and that they have misappropriated some of your equipment."

"Very good," she replied neutrally.

"The National Security Agency would like your assistance in the matter of your piano's significance to the Autobots."

"I wouldn't know what assistance I could lend," Dahlia replied at last, once a long enough silence had passed to make the bureaucrat sweat. "I am as ignorant as you on the situation."

"Unlikely, Miss Su." the man answered. "I am Theodore Galloway, national security advisor to the White House. You have information that could compromise international security, never mind the United States."

"..." Her thousand-yard stare conveyed extreme scepticism.

Here the man was practically vibrating. "You've done nothing wrong. Your country merely needs your help now."

"I have dual citizenship," Dahlia shrugged. "My grandmother survived the Long March. Mr Galloway, I do not know who you are or your connection to the White House, except presumably as one of the bureaucrats elected by the American public, potentially to serve the terrestrial agenda of the United States. For the first time in human history, extraterrestrial means were within reach. They are no longer within reach. I do not presume to understand the stresses of international security, Mr Galloway, but neither can I supply the answers to questions I do not know."

"I'll be the judge of that," Galloway retorted, his face blotched. "Now, your piano has the ability to control the Autobots?"

"No."

"That's a blatant lie. I have three reports that all state that it does."

"You are confusing _pianoforte_ and _keyboard_," Dahlia answered. "It is not my fault you cannot phrase your questions better."

"Miss Su, your work visa is at stake," Galloway threatened. "Do not push me."

"So I'll return to Hangzhou at your sufferance. Very well."

Galloway bustled out, followed by Graham after a brief moment.

"Release her," Galloway ordered. "We're deporting her."

"That's not wise, sir," Graham tightly replied.

"Don't interrupt me, Captain," Galloway shot back.

"She's a potential Decepticon target!"

"She's also potential for the American/Autobot Treaty to fly out the window," Galloway puffed up. "How are they going to share their tech with us now that we've this... thing?"

"Dahlia is not a thing!" Graham nearly shouted, but kept his voice low. "But go ahead. I'm sure the PLA would love her once they find out that America's extraterrestrial allies were under her thumb."

Galloway's blanching was almost worth the pain this might cause. "I- the threat of her presence is not worth national security!"

"You're not making sense."

"You're not even a citizen," Galloway huffed. "Why am I talking to you about this anyway?"

"Because I am a soldier of Her Majesty's Armed Forces," Graham evenly replied. "And before that a citizen of Earth."

* * *

Faint stirrings of worry clashed with the serenity of meditation.

Even when Dahlia somehow walked out of the stark interrogation room, strode for general facilities. Urgency might be apparent in every line of her body, every stance she took, but she walked and no one noticed her. Which was very lax security, come to think of it, but for the tracking of security cameras about the base, she garnered no response.

She found the hangar. She watched two giant robots – black and silver – tussle in what looked like a special arena, and soldiers performing drills on giant robots against another she had barely spotted.

By virtue of being the largest vehicle and the only flame-painted semi on base, Optimus Prime was very quickly located.

"I've decided," Dahlia kicked aside a stray piano key on the concrete, doubtlessly the fate of her keyboard. No pain was etched on her face at the destruction. "If my instrument turned out to be an instrument of murder, then you were right. I shall probably be deported very soon, so we shall have little reason to meet again."

The semi had no response.

"I'm sorry for holding all of you hostage," Dahlia confessed after a while. "I know you can hear me, and if you do understand, then you realise what I am saying. I just wanted to say... that I am glad we met, even if for a while and not in the best circumstances. And goodbye."

A heavy horn resounded as she turned her back. The semi peeled out, stopping beside her. A door swung open.

"_Let's blow this taco stand!_" the radio played.

"I thank you very sincerely for your offer to transport me towards freedom," Dahlia chose her words with care. "I just cannot leave in such a cowardly fashion. My boyfriend works here, and I love him, you see. Deserting him would reflect badly on him and ruin our relationship."

'_As Time Goes By_' played.

"Lovers aren't welcomed that often," Dahlia replied. "You are very kind, Optimus Prime. One day that kindness would hurt you very badly."

"_Get in the car_," the radio snapped in a different voice.

Dahlia got in, carefully perched in the passenger seat. Or the driver's, she realised once she noticed the steering wheel under her nose.

"Miss Su," the deep voice of Optimus Prime spilled out of the speakers. "I accept your apology. I would also like to apologise for getting you into this situation. Director Galloway is, I understand, not quite the sterling example of American bureaucracy."

"It was not really an expectation, but I can adapt," Dahlia answered. "About Director Galloway... I understood parts of his situation. I think he's running blind here, but he tries. Yet he can afford more than paranoia, if he considered these things more. He's really in the wrong job."

"Mr Galloway has expressed no interest in learning."

"Hmm," Dahlia agreed. "More his loss. Why are you telling me this?"

"You did not find us frightening."

"...let us say that, humanity's archives of fiction is far more encompassing than its archives of knowledge."

"I do not see the link."

"Before the search for extraterrestrial intelligence became the domain of science, it was the domain of fiction," Dahlia elaborated. "Humanity dreamt of flight, or searching amongst the stars... of the implications of doing so, besides. And behind us was a collection of stories dealing with the supernatural and paranormal, of the hypothesis that we have never been the sole sentient life on this planet. From that collection arose ideas of what to do in such a situation, and how to do so, such as the Universal Genre Savvy Guide."

"...you're saying that American-Autobot foreign policy was dictated by human _fiction_?" Something in the tone, despite the politeness never wavering, still conveyed what the Autobot leader thought.

"Do you have an Internet connection? Wait, what am I saying?" Dahlia shook her head. "Reference: TV Tropes, Just For Fun, Universal Genre Savvy Guide, subsection: If I Am Ever Head Of An Alien Monitoring Agency. My relevant section is under 'Working with Friendly Aliens'."

The engine of the giant Peterbilt hummed. Exactly how did they absorb concepts by human text, Dahlia pondered. So much more to them than meets the eye.

"Some sections are surprisingly paranoid, some are inaccurate, and yet, some are surprisingly prescient," Optimus admitted at last. "Such as the first and second entry to storing alien technology. And you're saying that human fiction dictated these rules?"

"Actually, science fiction as a genre is really a form of speculative fiction that's been derived by adapting pre-established concepts of human international diplomacy towards extraterrestrial aliens within certain boundaries of assumptions," Dahlia replied, a touch nervous. "I can't really speculate too much on your situation, but since this is a situation of the improbable made possible in the human paradigm, I suppose this falls under the predictive purview of science fiction. Some decisions undertaken might have been informed by the concerns discussed."

"But, fiction is by definition a lie," the giant alien robotic organism with autonomy wondered. "How can the rest of humanity believe that this lie holds any form of truth?"

"Humans have a saying: all stories have a kernel of truth," she answered, seated very still. "In times and places where open criticism of the powers that be are not allowed or censored, communication of stories allows us to bring across concepts shared amongst us. Fantasy is only one way of bringing that point across and make our otherwise short lives worth it."

"Humans need... fantasies to make life bearable? It is a wonder that they can live at all."

"Humans need fantasy to be _human_," Dahlia clarified. "Like... tooth fairies. You have to start out learning the little lies to believe the big ones."

"The big lies?"

"Justice, mercy, duty... liberty," Dahlia shrugged.

"They're not the same at all!"

"How old _are_ you?" the human replied, exasperated.

"Millions of years old, older than your civilisation."

"If you are ancient, then show me one atom of justice that naturally occurs," she challenged. "You act like there is some ideal order, some rightness in the universe that which it might be judged. The universe is entropy, disorder by nature."

"Yes, but people have got to believe that justice exists–"

"_Exactly_." Dahlia snapped her fingers, before gently patting the steering wheel. "I don't know about your kind, Optimus Prime. But, if you have not noticed, everyday humans die. We don't all have millions of years of experience, or science, or knowledge or teachings, or even the luck to be born on a planet not bent on actively killing us on a daily basis. Whatever humanity is doing now is born of cowardice stemming from almost humiliating weakness. If you find our methods delusional, so be it. But I am here, inside of a giant alien transforming autonomous robotic organism, because I am deluding myself that this extraterrestrial alien is not only generally benevolent, but is also actively involved in coexisting with humanity where possible."

"The possibility is so small," Optimus sounded confused.

"We were born of risen apes, not fallen angels, and the apes were armed killers besides," Dahlia pointed out. "So what shall we wonder at? Our murders and massacres and missiles, and our irreconcilable regiments? Or our treaties, whatever they may be worth? Our symphonies, however seldom they may be played? Our peaceful lands, however frequently they may be converted to battlefields? Our dreams, however rarely they may be accomplished? The miracle of humankind is not how far we has sunk, but how magnificently we has risen."

She closed her eyes. "We must have met in a fantasy, for it is the place where the fallen angels meet the risen apes."

The universe must have shifted. Something, someone, must have dropped into another world. A Cybertronian, with all the resources of human and Cybertronian civilisation, had lost an argument with a human being, a mere insect blind and helpless compared to them.

No, Optimus reflected as the woman got out of his cab, walking away with barely a glance back, at the defeat she had wrought. A risen ape.

* * *

_**Accessed 31st July 2014:**_

_**Universal Genre Savvy Guide, subsection: If I Am Ever Head of An Alien Monitoring Agency, sub-subsection: Storing Alien Tech:**_

_**1. I will not be stupid enough to have one of my alien artefact storage areas underneath, inside, above, next to or anywhere near an iconic and well known landmark: They are always the first to get blown up. If I am forced to do so for some reason (such as it being the only space allocated to me by those who control my purse strings and who refuse to allow me to relocate, or if I require the power-generation facility housed in said landmark,) I will not keep a frozen genocidal alien robot in my basement. If I have no other choice but to keep a frozen genocidal alien robot in my basement, for instance if containing said frozen genocidal alien robot is the primary, entire, or founding purpose of my alien monitoring agency, I will remain smart enough to invest in multiply-redundant backup generators and the best industrial insulation available so it doesn't defrost the second the back-up generator goes off-line.**_

_**1.1 I will also maintain a large supply of pressurized liquid nitrogen in which he may be immersed or hosed down with in order to buy additional time.**_

_**2. That said, if my alien artefact storage area in the desert comes under attack and the Big Bad is defrosting, I will endeavour to contain him and the final battle there, if only because having to move my alien Artefact O' Doom MacGuffin from the desert into an easily destroyed, highly populated urban area where I will have to rely on high school age children to hide it will only guarantee Humongous Alien Mecha will have to smash shit up, and this will probably cost me my Hero Insurance no-claims bonus.**_

_**Also from the same subsection, sub-subsection: Working with Friendly Aliens: **_

_**1. I will learn to spot the tell-tale differences between intelligent species with whom I can negotiate, and beasts with which I cannot negotiate.**_

_**Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Born of Risen Apes, not Fallen Angels**_

* * *

It was the body heat that woke Dahlia.

Scowling, Dahlia wrested the arm off of her middle and by her hip. "Your vice grips are cracking my ribs."

Beside her, David Graham barely stirred. Of course, his presence within her room at the Luxor Las Vegas only indicated that they had escaped Nellis just barely, but also with the potential ire of a certain Galloway to consider. The threat of deportation, on the bright side, no longer existed.

"I'm going out for a while," Dahlia said once she saw her cellphone. Six am thereabouts.

No response; the man was asleep.

Dahlia yawned, padding to the en-suite bathroom to perform her morning ablutions, before proceeding to don exercise equipment and head on a slow jog, with directions across Mandalay Bay Road. Las Vegas might be a city that never slept, but here was a lull in activity, in the relative peace of mornings that came with a desert sun.

"Should have brought more sunscreen," Dahlia commented, almost to herself as she finished her stretches and started on the basic forms in _taiji_. And continued. And continued.

She continued to ignore the eye-searing Peterbilt flame-painted semi pulled up next to the bit of greenery she was in until all forms were complete, and then she walked to the semi. "I hope you brought your own water."

The semi huffed. Perhaps it was her imagination... really?

Dahlia took a long drink out of the bottle she had set aside. Woman and alien considered each other for a long moment. Or a woman considered the garish paint job.

"You said that human fiction could have informed the American government's decisions about us," Optimus decided at last, breaking the tableau.

"Oh no," Dahlia answered. "Only _some_. Most of it would probably be informed by traditional human theories of international relations. And the rest of it would be simple paranoia or stupidity. Or... is there a reason they are acting like this?"

There was a vent of air. "I... cannot give you many details, but suffice it to say... your government-"

"_The_ government," Dahlia clarified. "I did you the favour of addressing you as an autonomous robotic organism. You could do me the favour of not implying that I voted for the current government in power."

"The government," Optimus emphasised. "and our kind has met before. It was not well, since they met a rather hostile specimen of my people. The first and second scenario described in your Internet's surprisingly prescient guide described what happened."

"Erm..." Dahlia racked her brain. "Storing alien technology? Wait, the genocidal alien robot in the basement? Which monument got destroyed?"

"The one you call Hoover Dam."

"That means... Mission City," Dahlia nodded, looking around. "Look, can we proceed with this conversation where there are less people? I'd rather not have the local police on you or I."

The driver's side swung open, and Dahlia climbed in cautiously. It swung shut, and the Peterbilt began to roll along.

"I apologise for the destruction of your instrument," Optimus continued. "Captain Graham has explained the importance of that instrument to us. We will, of course, reimburse you where needed, but I realise that the sentimental value cannot be replaced."

"It's a present from my D&D group," Dahlia hand-waved, as much as she could when trapped with a seatbelt and being technically inside the other. "It's fine."

"D&D?"

"Dungeons and Dragons," she clarified. "It's a tabletop role-playing game set in a high fantasy background. There is a game master, who dictates the rules, and the other players, who form a team to take down the Game Master. Roles like melee warrior, supporters, logistics, scouts are played by the other players, who have to win against the Game Master."

"It does not sound like a complicated quest."

"A Game Master is like a ruling deity under the game's rules," Dahlia added. "Not only do they dictate the flow of events, they act as referees in a game, so the success and failure of a campaign, or whether a necessary item can be found in time, can depend on the Game Master."

"Then how does one win against such an entity?"

"It's a role-playing game," Dahlia gently persuaded, suddenly realising that, perhaps, she was talking to a complete newbie. "With dice."

"Excuse me?"

"It sounds like a war campaign," Optimus decided after a lengthy explanation on the history of D&D and its rules, "against a ruling deity of an imaginary world that not only controls the actions of most of the populace, but also the flow of events, the settings, the enemy troop strength, the resolution of conflict situations, and overall organisation, on top of enemy strength. It's very strange. It serves no practical purpose, takes almost no brain power, you gain nothing tangible, and yet, it sounds quite satisfying."

"Welcome to gaming," Dahlia was guzzling her water by this time. "In the game, I usually play a Bard character."

"But what does the ability to play music do in battle?"

"Depends," Dahlia shrugged. "But, under the rules of D&D, bards command the power of music under the principle of _musica universalis _to create a spell-like effect. Music itself has held a magic over humankind, such that in languages like Italian, the word for 'to sing' and 'to cast a spell' are synonymous."

"I agree," Optimus rumbled. "The fascination with music has spanned the length of Cybertronian civilisation too. It is relieving that another shares the same sentiment, even though we are far different."

"You agree too?" she asked. "That music is the universal language?"

"I am sure that, were one of my companions alive, he would agree with you. Jazz is a musician at heart."

"And he is dead in body," Dahlia reflected. "So I can only ask him through you."

"...I suppose."

"But why seek me?" she enquired. "I am sure that the threat of my piano subjugating your race has been taken care of. Unless you decided to do it for fun, and to offend Galloway, which I acknowledge might be worth it, but ultimately self-defeating."

"The luxury of leading a group of refugee extraterrestrials," Optimus gravely answered, "lies in the choice to deliberately ignore the less applicable advice given in the name of security one's own sources."

Dahlia hummed, but said nothing else. "Since we're still driving around a bit... what do you want to know?"

"Tell me what are those exercises you just did."

"_Taijiquan_?"

* * *

"I have found a solution to our problem," was Optimus's opening declaration upon returning to Nellis.

"You have?" Ratchet was reviewing screens upon screens of material; the full contents of the classified soon-to-be Alien/Autobot Cooperation Act. "Okay, so how are you going to stop some human from demanding weaponry again and again?"

"Give them what they want."

"Give them- Prime!" Ironhide snarled.

"Yet, what they want must be couched in such a way that the item is attainable, but that getting it would mean consequences," Optimus clarified. "Say, for example, the means of producing manufactured energon cheaply."

Ratchet stared at him. "But that's not a weapon."

"We have been isolated for so long, old friend, that we have forgotten how to negotiate with beings attached to an open economy," Optimus replied. "Much less a young, isolated species like humanity. All things have consequences attached, and they can only have those things should the consequences be acceptable..."

* * *

Galloway looked down from the box, up to Optimus Prime's flat expression. "You're... giving us this," he clarified. "Without strings attached."

The Prime leant forward, all the better for his blue optics to glimmer in Galloway's face. "Director Galloway, I have realised the fallacy of keeping helpful technology from my allies. Inside this is the means to create energon from solar power at a cheap, low-cost rate replicable in any appliance used in a human dwelling. Energon is almost liquefied energy, with little chemical signature and, indeed, cleaner than most fossil fuels. I give you this in the name of humanity."

"Well... thank you," Galloway finally said, looking from the box to Optimus in disbelief. "We will... use it. For humanity."

"Once the box is opened," Optimus continued. "a signal shall also be triggered, sharing this same knowledge with the rest of your world, through your World Wide Web. Attempts to remove the knowledge shall trigger a mirroring effect, creating a Streisand effect, at which the knowledge shall be further spread."

The director's complexion turned blotchy once more. "Hey! I thought you said that there were no strings attached!"

"I did," Optimus serenely replied. "No string was used to tie the box, as I understand some Earth cultures demand of gifts bequeathed. I also mentioned that I was giving you this technology in recognition of humanity's energy needs. Also in recognition of your slow bureaucratic needs for the information to be disseminated to the public, I have taken the means of information propagation upon myself to rectify, as well as provided protection against sabotage. You claimed to use it for humanity, surely this would only help you."

"But it would provide America's enemies with further knowledge against us!" Galloway retorted.

"The choice of spreading this information thus rests upon your decision to open the box," Optimus pleasantly rebutted. "Mastering the means of energon generation is, after all, the first step to replicating our weaponry, thus we have provided the foundational knowledge. Freedom is indeed, the right of all sentient beings. Yet, your Earth scholars have commented that no practical definition of freedom would be complete without the freedom to take the consequences for one's actions. Good day, Director."

* * *

"There is a perfectly rational reason why your flat denial won't work," Dahlia had explained, outlining the potential plan once the problem had been explained to her. "People, any rational actor, are naturally attracted to freedom – that is, having as many options open to them as possible. In the case of an option being closed off, your instinct is to open it back up; this is the root or contributing factor to the current situation. In general, the effect is greatly lessened if a good, valid and fair reason is given for not doing something. For the same reason, telling people what to do instead of what _not_ to do usually avoids this problem."

"I have given the same explanation several times," Optimus groaned. "And they continue."

"I'm not sure if it's short man syndrome, or the fact that you're... well, an alien, telling an American no," Dahlia paused. "The problem is not telling the American government no; it's telling Galloway to take his pursuits elsewhere than pestering you. See, you detail to him all these reasons, and the information is processed in the human brain's executive centre, whose reason for existing lies to question assumptions and start arguments. A full argument from you based in logic could only be hand-waved by Galloway, who is probably convinced that you're keeping something from him, and so his reaction is to start again. However, if you place the information with Galloway, and also suggest all the consequences that comes of him attaining it, I can guarantee that Galloway would drop the Pandora's Box rather than take it to the White House."

"If you can guarantee that, you are truly Primus-sent."

The Peterbilt rolled up to where a woman and an acoustic guitar was playing at the guard station. At the first sight, he transformed, standing in his bipedal form. Metallic hands began to clap together in a round of applause as the strings were strummed.

A moment later, Optimus's optics twitched and immersive 3D projection took them back to the hangar, where Galloway was ashen-faced, dropping the box and running out as soon as possible, with the good-natured laughter of NEST soldiers lingering behind him. The other Autobots, inside the hangar with their vehicular forms, could not join in, though a certain Topkick was definitely vibrating with something resembling mirth.

"I salute you, Ms Su," the Autobot leader said as the projection switched off.

"Who dares, wins," Dahlia gently reminded. "I'm not sure if your kind would ever fall for it, or if it would be of use to your enemy, but we are talking about a human being, one subject to the same politicking and social hierarchy as I in the eyes of human society. Call it a small revenge on my part."

Optimus turned to the other occupant of the guard post. "A worthy mate you have found, Captain."

"Yes, I'm ridiculously lucky," Graham beamed back. "The gallows-man taken care of, then?"

"I fear it a temporary reprieve," Optimus sighed. "Though a comparatively long one. How is it that humans will continually wish for more when they have so much is beyond me."

Dahlia set down her guitar. "You're right and wrong there."

"It makes me wonder," Optimus mused. "Were a Decepticon to appear, and without our assistance, could you have convinced him otherwise without us?"

"...I never believed for a moment that you would have this sentiment of abandoning those who has chosen liberty," Dahlia replied blandly, neutrally, and yet her phrasing inspired some sentiment of guilt. "Should you have refused us your protection, we can do nothing about it. Should you leave us, it is my wish that you and your civilisation will find happiness somewhere in this universe. If I shall die here on the spot, it is too bad, because we are all born, and must die one day. Then, I shall have only committed the mistake of believing in you, Optimus Prime."

Graham stared at her. "What- Dahlia! That was rude!"

"Look up Sirik Matak," Dahlia told the giant robotic alien. "It is realistic that politicians cannot always live up to their promises."

"The fault is mine," Optimus tipped his head, leaning down to meet her blank features. "I sense that it is a complicated topic."

"...it's not," Dahlia replied, with a false smile of abashment. "I apologise. It's just... complicated."

"Yes," Optimus sounded pensive, yet grave. "As shall be my next proposal to you, Ms Su."

"But this is so _sudden_." The deadpan delivery caused Graham to fall out of his chair.

"You trusted me as a sentient being. Now I shall return the favour," Optimus answered. "Upon my next meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, I shall request for a cultural liaison. Captain Graham and Major Lennox shall submit your name. Would you do us the honour of accepting?"

* * *

_**Google Maps was terribly unhelpful in locating public parks in Las Vegas, especially near the Luxor. Then again, I've never heard of anyone visiting Las Vegas to exercise.**_

_**I am certain that any economic theory cited here can be complete and utter crap powered only by authorial ruling and my general knowledge, aided by TV Tropes. However, reviewing Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen made me wonder at Optimus's approach of basically denying trading weapons technology, when the fallacy of human curiosity is so well-known we created tropes about it. The point of couching the method to produce energon here was not to show anyone as manipulative, but to make it clear that Optimus is also a being who, now armed with the knowledge of the psychological effect of the forbidden fruit on humans, sets up a situation where a given action (i.e. the box) parallels human myth, but also sets up the individual (Galloway) to decide whether to open Pandora's metaphorical Box or not, in the given situation where opening the secret could scatter it to the whole of humanity, or keeping it closed would benefit him instead of painting him as the one who eroded the US de facto monopoly on Cybertronian technology. Again, the definition of weapons tech is fuzzy here; after all, the home computer and nuclear power used to be classed as weapons tech, why not this? It also highlights Galloway's self-serving bias by placing the onus of choice on him; share it/don't share it? The potential effects of leaking this new fuel might invite more controversy, or would invite a whole new political headache.**_

_**Sirik Matak has the distinction of being the guy for The Reason You Suck Speeches in 1975 when America was pulling out of Indochina following Vietnam, made all the more faultless for its politeness despite refusing the asylum offered to him.**_

_**Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Born of Risen Apes, not Fallen Angels**_

* * *

"Cultural liaison," Dahlia mused over the sudden offer from the sovereign head of state of an alien race.

"You have official liaisons for that," she continued, phrased more of a question than a statement.

The Autobot leader made a noise like clanking metal pieces, or crude wind-chimes. It sounded suspiciously like a snort, yet the great Prime surely could not have lowered himself to such platitudes to communicate his opinion of Galloway as an effective liaison of anything other than entitled bigotry. "Director Galloway is far too occupied to educate us about the finer points of human culture. Whatever civilian contacts we have are, I realise, limited to a small segment of the human civilian population."

Dahlia exchanged a look with the British captain. "I think," she slowly began, "what you mean is that you're exposed to so many soldiers, but you've no idea how to deal with a civilian government?"

"I have dealt with civilian governments," Optimus stoically answered. "The time horizon of the politicians upon this continent continually surprises me. However, the problem lies in that... we have learned many things through the information network you call the World Wide Web, and yet the context is rather lacking."

"Oh, that bit," Dahlia realised. "Still, back to the subject. I... it's rather sudden, and I need some time."

"A rational decision." Optimus conceded. "Take all the time you need, all the arrangements you must make."

* * *

Dahlia usually carried notebooks on her person. They were usually music notebooks with pre-lined staffs, but there was a blank notebook that she used occasionally. The blank notebook was currently giving up half its pages towards sketching out the Autobot-Decepticon issue and underlying premises onboard a plane headed for San Francisco the next day.

Of course, most of it was coded. She was a lot of things, but stupid was not included.

"My keyboard-" Dahlia realised after a pause, and sighed. "I'll get another. But... how did that technology get into my keyboard? How did they know? They must have been exposed to my keyboard, but why wait... no, they've been here for a year, and David and I were dating for years before that. And, before that... they were vehicles. What defines a vehicle? A thing with wheels... a ship that floats, an airplane..."

Slowly, Dahlia considered the port-windows around her, the slightly lumpy seats of the airplane, and the dim lights. Also, the fact that they were currently thirty thousand feet above sea level. The Chinese-American remained at her position, and was first off the plane extremely quickly.

"That was close," Dahlia sighed once she had gone through customs and was waiting for a taxi. "I should... refuse... wait, David..."

The dial tone rang once, before it was picked up, a breathless voice answering quickly. "Dahlia, hi."

"I made it," Dahlia spoke into it. "I had... a supposition, you know. It was terrifying."

"Oh?" the soldier asked.

"I thought the plane I was on was... like the others," Dahlia obliquely said.

"Oh." There was a pause. "Well, that's... rather terrifying."

Even the warm Californian sunlight did nothing for her relief. "It is."

"I will try," David promised.

"I..." Dahlia swallowed, looking out of the large glass panelled walls over the airport, watching planes land and take off. "I... when you said that you were going to be here more often, I was so happy. I missed you so much."

"Uh huh..."

"And when the job was offered, my first thought was: oh, finally I could work with you," Dahlia continued quietly. "It's a foolish thought, but I... I realised then, on the plane, what you fight for us, for me. I was so lucky... I was so foolish."

"Hey, hey," David answered, concerned. "I'll... the big guy would understand, really. You can choose. Not everyone's cut out for a life with giant alien transforming robots in the background. I'll be with you, no matter what you choose. It's... really the safer option."

"I'm not afraid of dying," Dahlia answered sharply, walking to see a set of train tracks, and a road passing through it along with a flimsy striped barrier across the crossing. "I just... I'm afraid that I have no faith in humanity. If I screwed this up... you might die."

"You're right," David finally decided. "It's... well, reasonable. Just... going to be interesting to explain. And arrogant, to think that your opinion could sway them."

"I persuaded the leader of an alien race to fundamentally blackmail the US government into submission," she reminded him, walking with only her fanny pack and backpack to stand beside the barrier. "The big guy... he didn't want to. Somehow, I could sense it, that he didn't want to. That he held the ideal of truth far above even humanity could ever dream of. Don't tell him, but I felt like... like I had cheated the world- like I kept something back from all of you."

David's answer was drowned by a burst of static, and a rumbling that caused Dahlia to clutch her phone close. "David? David...?"

The train is rumbling at me, she wanted to say.

The caboose just transformed, she wanted to add.

Crates are scattering around, and people are shouting.

It's coming, it's coming here-

Hard rails jabbed into her midriff as she threw herself onto the tracks and rolled with the swipes, leaving the giant alien autonomous robotic organism to continue its rampage. Dahlia blinked, stars dancing in her vision as she was knocked into a pillar by the side of the tracks.

The pillar...

Gingerly, Dahlia got up and checked the unlit fusee she had knocked against. She then turned her head to consider the rail-side sheds.

A smile graced her features.

Hours later, Dahlia wiped stray pieces of gravel and pebbles from her jeans, carefully checking her fanny pack, the burnt gloves she had used in handling the flares and explosives, and ensured that all bloody pieces of gravel and stone, plus the prize stolen from the giant alien robot, were hidden in her pack.

Her breath was laboured, her skin cut by debris, scorched by fire and scratched by the metal monster, and yet...

She smiled.

A passing man, clad in slightly rumpled and filthy clothing and looking rather dangerous, took one look, and walked in the opposite direction. That look was common, amongst people high on something undefinable, and temporary, and hardly relevant, but in that moment the chink woman had a certain air of... either she was high on LSD, he thought, or she killed someone.

* * *

When the NEST soldiers came later to the railways of San Francisco, and saw the fallen Decepticon with burns down its chassis and armour, the butt of an expended road flare sticking out of its spark chamber and optics dying red, several soldiers gaped. Ironhide aimed his cannons.

The Decepticon rumbled. "Humans... terrifying."

"Who did this to you?" Ironhide quietly remonstrated.

The red optics blacked and flickered. "... human..."

They blacked out permanently.

Warily, the NEST soldiers exchanged looks, then looked to the abandoned, spent fusee and smoking road flares embedded into the legs, sensors, guns, and spark chamber. No human could be reckless, or skilled, or crazy enough... right?

"The last time, we needed high-heat, armour piercing sabot shells and a full team," Will groaned. "Now, someone took out the threat with det-cord, road flares and fusees. I would be so impressed if I weren't also seriously freaked out at the same time."

"It should be impossible," Ironhide commented.

"Two years ago, Mikaela versus Frenzy. Mikaela won," Epps reminded the big Cybertronian warrior. "Not impossible. Just... very improbable."

"So improbable that the chance should be zero," Ratchet agreed, picking up a stray fin, broken with heat. "Road flares that burn at a maximum temperature of one thousand six hundred degrees Celsius, in your human language. Enough to theoretically get through light armour."

He dropped the fin into a pile, picking out the plastic handle of a burnt flare. "This assault was not premeditated, simply improvised."

"Really?" Will asked. "How can you tell?"

"Road flares, fusees, and detonation cord," Ratchet pointed towards a nearby shed. "All present. Unless humans are in the habit of carrying demolition materials about, your mysterious Decepticon-killer raided that shed first."

"...okay, I'll buy that," Will nodded. "And our Decepticon-killer got lucky, 'cause this bugger was in light armour, and more focused on other things. So he hit between the eyes- optics, sorry, and..."

Ratchet knelt beside the vaguely humanoid shape of the fallen Decepticon. "I am unable to form much of a hypothesis. I do, however, believe that the legs were taken out first with the detonation cord, followed by a flare to the hydraulics in each leg, and then the optics attacked with the fusee. The Decepticon struggled, and he stumbled, and the fusee fell into the spark chamber, burning through and ending the spark right there."

"Uh huh," Epps nodded, still not taking his eyes of the hunk of metal that used to be a hunk of metallic malice. "Nice forensic job there."

"I have been... persuaded... to do some reading," Ratchet admitted with the kind of tone that indicated dire consequences. "When the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Hence, if we are still with the hypothesis that the assailant performed according to the scenario I have laid out, there should be some form of automated locomotion nearby. Even a human running at top speed would not keep up with a Cybertronian."

"Give the lad a deerstalker," Will whistled as an engine gunned, and an old Jeep trundled out of the wreckage, manned by a NEST soldier. "See if we can lift prints off of that."

"Unrelated," Ironhide grumbled, stumbling towards them while carefully picking his way through the wreckage. "And impossible."

"Not impossible," Ratchet corrected. "Just very improbable. Which seems to happen on this planet every single day."

"Back in Fog City in barely a month," Will exhaled deeply. "And Graham's got leave. He's going to be gaming with his girlfriend."

"Why do humans insist on such simulations of tactics when they play no real benefit?" Ironhide asked the newly appointed Major.

"Oh," Will shrugged. "It's fun. Epps, we should have a Capture the Flag session next time."

"You're on."

* * *

_**Themes to be explored in this fic here include: misogyny, the fantasy-scifi debate, and the faculty of imagination.**_

_**Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Born of Risen Apes, not Fallen Angels**_

* * *

Dahlia awoke to a throbbing and beeping. "Ow, ow..." Moaning, she stumbled over a stray bedsheet, collapsing onto the thin carpet of her room.

Blearily, she opened her eyes to see the metallic device.

Her eyes flared open. She stumbled back, eyeing the device warily. It looked like an orb with wires sticking out of it, and Dahlia inferred that those wires... someone had plucked them out, she imagined. With great strength. Who had done it?

The beeping was from her cellphone, beside the device. She pawed at it with fingers stiff with cold, the Samsung device informing her smugly that there was three more hours to her daily prescription before the gaming session.

Her head hurt, but her gaming instincts were sharp. She would manage.

Now to locate the long-sleeved turtle-neck... and the violin...

The metal object was disturbing. She tried not to think about it.

"Dahlia!" Amrit rose to greet her in the same effusive manner he seemed to carry. "You did not bring the keyboard?"

"Hi Amrit," she greeted at the door of their meeting. "It broke. No, I brought my violin."

She went around to greet the others; Mike in a Pokémon shirt and jeans, Andy in a Captain America target-shield T-shirt, and Erika, the other girl in the group.

"Who's the GM again?" Erika blinked, her eyes faraway as she tried to recall.

"Amrit is," Dahlia reminded her.

"It's a good thing," Mike chipped in. "At least Amrit gives us nice empty rooms, enemies we can kill, no fiendishly difficult puzzles. And no one died."

"I died," Dahlia rebutted. "Of boredom. And my last thought was always 'where was that monster keeping his Artefact Of Doom?'"

It took a while before the Scion campaign got started by Amrit, taking off from where they left off in the midst of fighting a Band of Fomori.

"Casting Divine Threnody," Dahlia announced. "The amplified song cast through the relic, Orpheus's Lyre. Dice roll-"

"No, I cast Redirect with one Legend point," Amrit stuck his tongue out.

"Fine," Dahlia scowled as she rolled the dice, grinning as she clocked in her move. "Redirect forces me to use Hymn of Victory, using six Legend points to boost all members moves for the next five rolls."

"So which song is it?" Amrit teased as she picked up her violin and bow, which had seen quite a bit of use every music-influenced dice roll Dahlia made.

"I think _Macross Frontier_ might be good," Dahlia drew a breath, starting to bow the violin.

_Aimo aimo nedel rushe,  
Now toll the bells of victory,  
for this place is my new planet._

_Aimo aimo nedel rushe,  
Now wave our flags above our heads,  
for this place is the new land of God...  
_

The sudden earthquake threw her off. "What on earth...?"

"The earth wants to hear ya sing, girl," Andy gave an exaggerated wink. "That, or your soprano needs work."

* * *

"-nothing," Ratchet was saying. "We've tested the signal amplification gestalt. There remains nothing that should allow a human to influence, much less control us. Optimus, we must isolate Dahlia Su Daji for her own safety."

The mood hanging over Diego Garcia and its inhabitants of extraterrestrial origins was tense, a string stretched to limits that, if struck, would produce the highest of notes before snapping.

"From whom?" the Autobot leader questioned, his optics bearing a surprisingly human-like faraway look. "From the Decepticons? The humans? Us? The difference between protective custody and imprisonment is a clear threat."

"That female could reprogramme any of us, and had done so," Ratchet argued back. "I do not know how long that programming might be, and I do not care to know. Other Autobots might come someday, and when they find out about her existence, not all of them shall be as pacifist as us."

"We have the gestalt device," the larger Autobot insisted. "She is no longer a threat."

"And how did she get it?" Ratchet pointed out, calmly and with reason. "Some parts of fallen Cybertronians could have been lost in Mission City, but we have the relevant part now. You... this makes no sense."

"I sense... a spirit much like Prowl."

Ratchet tensed. "A... spirit like Prowl? There's no replicating that mech."

"That I acknowledge," Optimus earnestly replied. "I may be a Prime in name, and yet... I sense it. That woman is... dangerous."

"But in this case the female is no longer a danger, and we have regular contact with her via Captain Graham-" Ratchet paused. "Did you hear that?"

If it could, Optimus's spark would have sunk. "Did we get all the metal?"

* * *

The earthquake stopped. They crawled out, Dahlia awkwardly positioning her violin. The RPG players exchanged looks for a brief moment, noted the orange soda, and started playing again.

Hours later, Dahlia finally excused herself, muttering about being out late at night being potentially unsafe and hoisting her violin case over her shoulder. She muttered all the way back to her apartment, before considering the scene outside. Her hands were only marginally shaking as she dialled her speed-dial.

"David?" she whispered. "You remember those buddies of yours? Yes, their... buddies seem to be camping out around my apartment block."

"Ms Su, we meet too often like this," the deep voice of Optimus Prime spoke through after a moment of static. "I would first like to know if anything in your house is composed of metals not of Earth origin."

"Anything in my-" Dahlia cut off. "Why?"

A susurration of static echoed. "The explanation is long, but some artefact in your possession grants the power to control, possibly reprogram my kind. We are... attracted to the music, so to speak."

Dahlia swallowed. "You mean, when I was playing the violin... you guys heard that?"

"We are..." more static "...under its effect, so to speak."

"What did it do?"

"Declaration of territory..." static "...possibly, every Cybertronian on the continent have decided to congregate. The programming is incomplete at the moment, but its effects are no less debilitating."

Dahlia watched as a giant metallic bird fluttered down from the skies, squawking. The streets were empty, or there would have been a crowd. "Does the song sound like this? _Aimo aimo nedel rushe, uchinarase ima shouri __no kan__e__ o... koko wa arata na ware no hoshi..._"

"That sounds... close enough."

"So... if I was to finish the song, what will happen?" her tone was part curious and part half-panic.

"Most likely, the city will become a haven of Cybertronian activity. We need a song to nullify the effects, and I cannot help you as we have been physically incapacitated in our temporary medical bay to prevent collateral damage in reaching San Francisco."

Dahlia privately thought that chains had been at work. "Optimus Prime..."

"Yes?"

"... never mind" Dahlia clicked her tongue, holding her mobile by her shoulder as she handled the violin case, pulling violin and bow out to let the case clatter onto the side-walk. "Music works on variations in pitch and frequency to create an emotional response in a human's cerebral cortex. Assuming similar responses... assuming similar responses, sending another signal could disrupt the previous one."

She set the mobile down, switching to the speaker function. "Can you hear me?"

"Hurry the slag up!" another voice joined, made tinny by static and possibly a hack.

Setting bow to strings, Dahlia mentally reviewed her song before pulling the bow. _I put a spell on you..._

With a violin solo of 'I Put A Spell on You', the Decepticon group of flying creatures – sadly, drones more than actual Decepticons – was successfully detained around one of Chinatown's apartment buildings, upon which the arrival of a black Topkick transforming into a cannon-toting mech arrived with an official letter bearing the stamp of the Non-Biological Extraterrestrial Space Treaty. It also came with Captain Graham awkwardly handing said letter in the wreckage of what used to be the face of an apartment building to the musician, who promptly set about making arrangements to move.

Dahlia Su Daji was coming to Diego Garcia.

* * *

_**The song was Aimo from Macross Frontier. **_

_**Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Born of Risen Apes**_

* * *

On the island base of Diego Garcia a few mornings after San Francisco, Chief Master Sergeant Robert Epps elbowed his superior. Perhaps after a few repeats, it should have become routine, and yet the novelty had yet to wear off.

"Are my eyes right?" the former asked the latter.

"Yes, they are," Will sighed. "Yes, that is the Autobot leader following a human in a human training exercise. Apparently to correct his spinal struts."

"What are they doing?" Epps muttered, watching human and Autobot arms move up and down at opposite ends. "If that's Graham's girl, I pity him."

"It's a form," Will corrected. "And Miss Su is our rather unwilling guest, while Ratchet rips out every bit of apparently Cybertronian metal in her instruments. Apparently she's been literally playing on their equivalent of heartstrings."

"She'll be playing the whole base if she likes," Epps grinned. "Think we can reassemble the keyboard in time for her to get Sideswipe into a Sugar Plum Fairy?"

"No."

One pede landed heavily on the beach, leaving a heavy print as Optimus Prime continued with the form called White Crane spreads its Wings. It would be funny if it weren't for the teacher's commentary:

"Ideally you use this to hit the bladder or kidneys, and then you bring the right hand down on their neck, trapping the opponent with an arm bar. If pressed, bring up the other hand and slap them with it, then use the reverse reeling forearm..."

"Big Buddha," Will snickered quietly, while Epps shook with slight amusement.

Later the amusement would fade as the result of speeding through the 24-form Beijing standard would result in the next Decepticon broken into a pile of parts with his bare servos revealed itself. For now, though, Optimus moving to the single whip pose was rather like a dancing giant robot.

"I suppose, taking into account the stronger gravity on your home planet, you guys should be comparatively stronger," Dahlia mused aloud. "Faster running, jumping higher, so on. Which implies that you guys are Heavy Worlders-"

* * *

"It'll be fine," Graham told her as the Autobots began the slow process of extracting all Cybertronic metals from her instrument collection. Seeing as most of the strings assembled were made of steel, it almost made Dahlia wish for a transition back to silk strings.

"It better be," she sighed. "I don't want to worry you."

Graham nodded, unconvinced if his expression was any indicator. "Think of it as a holiday."

"I will. At least, until he tears one string too many," Dahlia was still staring at the extraction operation, restringing her violin in her hands and strumming to tune it.

Once she was satisfied, she took up her rosin and rubbed it on the horsehair of its bow, taking care to cover every hair. The care and metaphorical feeding of the fiddle did not go amiss by the Autobot medic, especially as she raised it and caught the end of his flinch.

"It's safe, you know," she added, watching the medic.

"I know," Ratchet answered. "But it is a precaution. We do not yet know the capabilities of the signal gestalt found in the first instrument we dismantled."

"You guys better pay for that," Dahlia faintly rebutted as she drew a long A note.

"Duly noted, Ms Su," Optimus's voice boomed as the Autobot leader entered the temporary atelier, keeping a distance from the discarded metal teased from the steel strings that Dahlia kept unwinding from her instruments. "The sheer variety of strings you keep is astounding. We cannot thank you enough for your understanding."

"It's for a purely selfish reason," Dahlia corrected. "David is involved too far in this. At least, I can avoid throwing another burden on him if I took action now to remove the source of this phenomenon before it escalates."

"Many humans do not share the same depth of thought you have exhibited, Ms Su."

"As a civilian, I assume that ordinarily, I would never have set foot here because of health reasons," Dahlia pointed out. "At least I can see David's workplace. And at least I can do something to help, even if it is just to get out of the way and let the professionals do their thing."

"I do not think your thoughts are typical of the average human, I believe."

"Do you comprehend the thoughts of many humans, Optimus Prime?" Dahlia stated, almost in challenge.

"The average human forms patterns in their daily routine. I suppose given enough time, perhaps, unless a human's individual agency leads them to deviate from a set pattern."

"But that does not mean that you may understand an individual's motivations fully," Dahlia chuckled, pulling another note. "Such as humans. Everything we have done, are doing and will do, is borne out of cowardice stemming from almost humiliating weakness."

Optimus peered down as she tightened a string. "I suppose. But I have witnessed your capacity for courage, and I believe that there is more than meets the eye."

"Thank you," Dahlia replied, pulling another note and then nodding. "Now, for the price of a song, what will you pay?"

Optimus made an exhale that sounded like a cut-off laugh. "You will have to show me- what is that instrument?"

"An _erhu_," Dahlia replied, setting aside the tuned violin to make a start on the smaller instrument, plucking at the two steel strings before tightening and pulling the bow strung between the strings, tuning the strings.

"Another stringed instrument?" Optimus looked at it. "And music is possible with this?"

"Three and a half octaves," Dahlia replied. "You have music, right? Optimus? Medic?"

"Call me Ratchet," Ratchet added, perhaps feeling left out. "Yes, we have music. Wind instruments, and something like your synthesisers, and mainly brass instruments. Lots of the brass orchestras here sound like Senatorial fanfare back home. "

"Yes, albeit Earth's brass orchestras are of an admittedly limited frequency," Optimus chipped back in. "Ms Su, may I enquire as to why do you have so many stringed instruments?"

"My condition affects my lungs," Dahlia confessed. "I can't play either woodwinds or brass, and there's only so much percussion alone can achieve in polyphony. And, I picked up these instruments for a song. They're... a cultural reminder, if I have to admit."

"I see," Ratchet's eyes glowed, scanning her back before he paused. "Ms Su, there is a bit of metal embedded within your body."

"Yes, that's the ICD," Dahlia absently replied. "Oh wait, it's an implantable cardioverter defibrillator. I forget that you didn't- wait, you can tell?"

The broken tension from disarming the instruments seemed to have returned with a vengeance as both Cybertronians considered the human.

"Ms Su," Optimus asked gently. "I apologise for violating your privacy."

Shaken, Dahlia nodded. "No harm, no foul. But a warning might be nice. My condition, medic?"

"Relatively healthy, given the congenital heart defects riddling your circulatory pump," Ratchet admitted, confused. "Why?"

"Call it a service so that we might be equal," Dahlia replied. "We are unlikely to see each other after this matter, so it is best to part on amicable terms."

At this, Optimus shifted. "You would not become our cultural liaison?"

At this, Dahlia set the _erhu_ down and picked up her violin, drawing a song out of it. "You reminded me of a human legend, like King Arthur. Then I recalled the central theme of Arthurian mythology."

Despite so, Optimus could not help but lean forward. "And the theme is?"

"We might want to live up to our ideals, yet they can only fall to the baser instincts of humanity," Dahlia scoffed. "I must have given you a very long 'it's not you, it's me' speech, but that was the main point. I don't trust myself, and thus I remove myself from the equation."

"Your thoughts are noble, Ms Su," Ratchet finally dropped the last string. "I suppose we shall not meet anymore."

"I don't know about that," Dahlia shrugged, beginning to play another song, not by bowing but by plucking.

"_Greensleeves?_" Ratchet enquired.

"It suited the mood," was her only reply.

* * *

The haunting melody of Greensleeves echoed for a bit outside, and by evening somehow a dance-off had been organised with only one DJ.

"_Check out the rep, yeah, second to none!_" Sideswipe performed something similar to a _fouetté en tournant_ and twist that any ballerina would have envied. Dahlia whistled, enjoying her last night on the island of Diego Garcia as they bogeyed down.

The grey keyboard reassembled now, Dahlia grinned as she played her way through the night, with David by her side.

Will blinked as she met eyes with him, and somehow... they glowed blue. Will turned away, unsure of why the sight of her unnerved him... why her grin so resembled a slasher smile especially as she lifted the electric guitar.

* * *

_**Ordinarily, there's no reason to keep a musician on base. In fact, most OC fics usually keep their OCs in an occupation directly relevant to the Transformers so that they have a chance to hang around for more than at the sidelines. Transformers: Prime pretty much showed that having untrained humans directly involved is a bad idea. Of course, Dahlia's secret is in her name.**_

_**Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Born of Risen Apes**_

* * *

It was after the concert that Dahlia's smile faded, and the woman sagged forward, alone with the last instrument to be retuned.

Diego Garcia was a military base, and it showed in the austerity of the temporary storage area for her instruments. There were a lot of instruments; Dahlia had been a collector of them. Every single instrument had to be isolated for Ratchet to scan and rip off bits of Cybertronian metal, where they had somehow integrated into the strings or the general structure of said instrument.

Dahlia blinked, looking at her hands and gripping the stringless acoustic guitar. "I blacked out in the middle of a Celine Dion _improviso_," she echoed slowly, looking about her. "That does not happen. The strange metal objects in my house is explainable given time for me to reason the situation away, but given the current situation, its facility and my instruments indicate a certain conspiracy at hand. Now it remains to see if Arkham's or Occam's Razor is the most relevant here. Which is it?"

"..."

"Mission City?" Dahlia cocked her head. "I was there a few days after the mess there... ignited gas leak, they called it, or something."

"..."

"Wait, so it's not time, it's... my perception. I was _there_...?"

"..."

"...I'm living with you, then. What's wrong?"

"..."

"...wow, you're going to use me as a meat puppet to sabotage your enemies, who are presumably tuned into most aspects of human society for numerous decades, which I am not guaranteed to survive, and exposes me to many dangers instead. What makes you think that I won't take this to a professional at once?"

"..."

Dahlia drew a breath, slowly exhaling it as she closed her eyes. As she opened them once more, one eye remained shrouded in the shadows that fell across her face as she smiled. The other eye glowed a celestial blue.

The guitar collapsed into a heap of writhing wires, the silvery mass of ductile metal rearranging and plaiting themselves into a portable electronic keyboard, and Dahlia set it up before playing a song, a song great and terrible alike, an overture to the next phase of the Autobot-Decepticon War.

An overture ringing with something akin to wrath.

* * *

Diego Garcia should be the oasis of calm. Being an overseas base in the middle of the Indian Ocean meant that it was subject to Island Time. Rather than an official time, Island Time meant that days tended to be long, lethargic and laggard. Will Lennox had fallen out of bunk with such expectations, between weapon maintenance and training regime.

His expectations had died quickly when he went outside to be faced with more news. With the fact that somehow, one way or another, a completed song had travelled to the end of the Solar System.

"If the Decepticons didn't know about the gestalt signal generator, they do now," Ironhide started, aggravated as the small welcoming committee kept arguing. "And if no one got Prime's message to the stars, trust me, any Cybertronian would have gotten the giant hail of music. I thought you removed every bit of Cybertranium from those slagging instruments!"

"I did!" Ratchet defended. "Do you have any idea what those acoustic instruments contain? Nothing that suggests a gestalt, until I inspect the strings and find the Cybertranium circuits! You try scanning an entire orchestra before yelling, cannon-mech!"

"Ha! What use are those bloody sensors when we couldn't even hear the song going around!"

"Regardless," Optimus finally broke in,, looking towards the DC-3's only civilian passenger. "We must figure out what had happened, and to do so requires us to derive a theoretical mechanism to fix this problem. Ms Su?"

"Call me Dahlia, since we're going to be a while," Dahlia was typing into a PDA with impressive speed. "Okay... if this works like D&D magic or something, then bardic spells by definition have a set time limit. They aren't explosive or AOE, but they... hang around. Like a song in your head. I'm no programmer, but think of it as... a virus in the background, or something like that."

"And what does this virus do?" Will tentatively enquired.

"It is a call," Sideswipe commented through his radio. "Erm... like a gian' foghorn through space, something like tha'. Damn persistent, too."

"What to do..." Dahlia sighed, strolling over to pat Sideswipe's hood before wandering again. "But it means that more autonomous robotic organisms from the planet Cybertron will be coming."

"Autobot and Decepticreep alike," Sideswipe agreed. "Doesn't differentiate, my main gal. Say, you brought the bellows?"

"They aren't bellows," Dahlia explained. "They're an accordion. It's a completely different function."

"Eh, close enough," Ironhide scoffed. "Play something, won't you?"

"Frag you." But she set it out anyway. "Who knew you guys like music so much?"

Conversation was temporarily cut off as the strains of an accordion spread through, lulling most of the soldiers, aliens and even the lone civilian who was tagging along only to decipher the musical notation of the signal from last night. If any had bothered to look outside, they would have seen an F-22 Raptor fall back, swinging from side to side in the slipstream. Above, an alien masquerading as a satellite in geosynchronous orbit placed three transmissions on hold to listen closely over the air transmissions from a known NEST transport plane.

The song ended when the plane was about to touch down, and the Autobots rolled out onto the Australian outback. Neither the NEST soldiers – and one reluctant-looking Captain David Graham – nor the Autobots present thought about how Dahlia's hands started trembling.

"I thought you said that we were supposed to keep distinct personalities."

"I did," Dahlia's lips moved as her eyes flashed into celestial blue. "That was your public persona, and a bit o' mine too."

"When you blend our personality aspects, it makes it harder to tell when you begin and I end."

"Ain't you sweet," she snickered. "Reminds me of a mech, ya know?"

"The one with a surprising propensity towards law and order? But a hidden wisdom behind his spark all the same?"

"Prowlie, yeah," she sighed, her left iris twitching in the relative gloom of the empty hold. "You're a lot like him up there. Why'd you choose this?"

"Tactics and strategies are for amateurs," Dahlia frowned. "The United States military chooses to focus upon logistics instead. And, my strategic skill, as you claim, is studied from every science fiction story ever derived from mankind. We can only dream about what we do not know."

"I won't know," her lips moved as she tentatively fingered the accordion keys, giving it a tentative squeeze to drag out a long note. "We've never had accordions on Cybertron."

"Focus," she hissed.

"You're really taking this very calmly, ya know," she continued.

"I was named for a historical concubine said to have been possessed by a fox demon and who destroyed an ancient dynasty." Dahlia stated. "You can say that I am a believer that my name divines my fate, although I didn't anticipate that it would take place so literally."

"I can't hack your head, Dahlia."

"You tried to hack my thoughts. If you do that I won't be happy."

"You're an organic fleshling."

"You're the alien trapped with the organic fleshling. We're sharing the same hardware."

Dahlia's teeth flashed. "Agreed. Thanks for the signal, by the way."

"It is to call the other player we need," Dahlia answered. "Prowl, that was his designation. So you want him to be the Duke of Qi. I think we can arrange that after I set my affairs in order."

"You're a scary human, and if there's more of you the Decepticreeps are gonna regret ever coming near this planet."

"I am sure that your faction shall regret it too, in time..." Dahlia's eyes flashed as the accordion unfolded, transforming into a familiar keyboard before it disassembled itself to reform into a many-tailed birdlike creature. It dropped onto the hangar, stretching its wings temporarily as Dahlia's face scrunched, dark eyes beginning to shimmer into a blue so unearthly as to not even be human; the only other blues it could, and would, ever match belonged to the optics of the Autobots.

Her neck cracked.

"Ouch," she winced. "DJ Jazz is in da house, and chez Dahlia is flippin' out at me afta tha' extended stay of a coupla months. Fraggit, how'm ah supposed ta tell anyone?"

* * *

_**The story ends here, since I was just sketching out the idea. I'll expand it further in another fic, so please look out!**_

_**Fini.**_

_**Critiquez, s'il vous plaît!**_


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